Summary and content: Going her own way, the reader becomes a tailor, stepping away from the idea of becoming a mentor for young witches unlike her life-long friends. In a letter, she mentions a man that she has begun a relationship with, but she doesn’t say his name. Curious, Qifrey and Olruggio make a visit to her to figure out who he is. Romantic Easthies and reader. Platonic Qifrey/Olruggio and reader (sibling like relationship). Brief mentions of the Qiflings. She/her used on reader. One use of [Name] in the beginning. OOC? Kiss, kiss, fall in love. I don't know how to write kissing. Rushed ending </3
Requested - Anonymous on Tumblr
A/N: There were some things I didn’t know how to write, so I switched those things around. I hope you still like it! Also, I have never written for these characters, so thank you for giving me the chance to :) I wanted to keep this short, too, so it’s more of a drabble. AND “Qifrey” kept autocorrecting to “Wifey” then to "Winfrey," but that doesn't really matter right now. I think it’s a sign.
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To my dearest friends, Qifrey and Olruggio,
My days have fared well, and I am still earning quite enough in my business. There is a new person coming in at least every other week. I am glad to be of help to people. One wouldn’t think you would meet so many kinds of people in this kind of job. Travelers, fellow artisans, mothers, grandmothers, and curious children.
Speaking of children, how are your apprentices? It has been awhile since I’ve asked, and even longer since I have last seen them. I do hope they are well.
I am doing well in my personal life as well. I met a man just the other week. He has brought me small trinkets and flowers every time he has visited me. We have talked about pursuing a serious relationship only yesterday. He’s stoic, but is also very kind and thoughtful.
Sincerely and with love, [Name]
You looked at the parchment as you finished signing it, smiling to yourself. Just as you were about to set the quill down in the pen rest, the overhead bell to your shop rang.
You turn around in your stool, looking up to who just walked in. Seeing the familiar silhouette, your smile widens, placing your cheek to rest on your clasped hands.
“My oh my,” you greet Easthies.
He tilts his head down, almost to hide the small smile he has, at your greeting.
“Hello, to you as well,” he leans down, his hand cups your chin as his thumb brushes over your lower lip, and leaves a light kiss against your cheek.
Your cheeks warm at the display of affection. Even if it’s early, and even if no one else is in your shop, you find yourself almost flustered at the thought of people seeing you two together doing such things.
“Easthies,” you whisper, moving your hands to cover your cheeks, closing your eyes and grinning. “How very bold of you this early morning!”
Easthies says nothing, but reaches out to grab your wrist, moving it away from your face.
You stay silent as well, only peaking open one eye to look at him, the grin still on your face. With your other hand, you reach out to touch his cheek. From cheek to jaw, from jaw to neck, and from there to his nape. A slow trip from start to end. Your nails travel lightly against his skin, leaving goosebumps where they once touched, but he doesn’t shiver from the feeling.
Easthies stays how he was, as if your hand has turned him to a statue. You lean in closer to him the closer your fingers get to his hairline at the back of his neck. Both your eyes becoming half lidded as you feel your breaths joining the other’s.
Your lips are a mere graze against Easthies’ as you speak to him, “Easthies?” Your voice was gentle, and airy. Such a light whisper.
“Hm?” Easthies let out a quiet hum, trying to match your volume.
“You’re so pretty,” your eyes close as you let out.
Easthies only closes the very small space that’s left between you, kissing your lips just as lightly as he did your cheek, making you giggle against him.
As you two broke apart, you looked up at him, smiling, before turning around to your writing area you've set up on your desk.
“I was writing to my friends before you came in,” you said, grabbing the letter and folding it into itself three times, then grabbing the spoon with already melted wax, sealing it closed with a stamp.
-
A knock sounded at the door, a small echo throughout the atelier as everyone was sat down, ready to eat whatever lunch was that day. Letting out a huff and a grumble, Olruggio got to his knees to stand.
“I’ve got it,” he makes his way to the door, a slight drag of his feet against the flooring.
“Hello, good afternoon, sir!” A cheery messenger greeted Olruggio when he opened the door.
Olruggio only stared at the other man, letting out a gruff “afternoon,” himself.
Feeling a bit pesky at the curt greetings, the messenger handed him a letter sealed with a familiar dark purple wax. “Here you are, sir!”
Taking the letter, Olruggio thanked him, making sure he went on his way before closing the door to the atelier.
Olruggio opened the letter, making his way back to the dining area. Only reading the first line, he called out for Qifrey. He only glanced at the other man before heading to the kitchen. Qifrey followed very soon after excusing himself from the table and the girls.
As Qifrey walked into the kitchen, he only saw Olruggio staring very sternly at the piece of parchment like it personally offended him somehow.
“Oh my,” Qifrey could feel an awkward sweat forming on the back of his neck as he smiled without humor. “Is everything alright, Olly?”
Taking his attention off the letter, he looks to Qifrey, “She says she’s met someone.”
Qifrey’s eyes widened, almost in an excited manner, “why, that’s wonderful!” He cheers, bringing his hand together.
-
Just a few days later, as the others were filled with lessons and patrols, certain people decided to pay you a visit.
Down in Kalhn, Easthies was just on his way to your small tailor shop, just as he was the other day. An inconsistent yet familiar routine. He was donned in his Knights of Moralis attire as he walked along the cobblestone streets. It was just as busy as it usually was around this time of day, so he wasn’t surprised when someone, a child no less, bumped into him.
He looked down after hearing the meek voice apologize. Easthies was not surprised that a child bumped into him, no. He, however, was surprised to see that Coco, one of Qifrey’s apprentices, was the one that had bumped into him.
“Coco,” Qifrey called out.
Speak of the devil…
Turning his attention to Easthies as he reached out to pull Coco away from the man. “Easthies,” Qifrey greeted with a terribly forced smile. “I’m surprised to see you here in Kalhn.”
“You as well. I am only doing a simple errand run.” Easthies wanted to keep the encounter short with the other man.
“Is that so?” Qifrey continued, “We are as well. So then, Best we go our own ways now,” he wanted to keep the encounter short as well.
Easthies said nothing, only nodding at the man’s words. He takes off in his original direction, stepping past the other two, and at some time, he passed by Olruggio as well. How rare to see him here, Easthies thought to himself.
-
You’re sat in your stole as you are most days, torn garment in hand and sewing needle in the other. Easthies stands at your back, rubbing at whatever small knot you have in your shoulder. You let out small hums of satisfaction every now and then.
The overhead bell rings, but you don’t look up. Keeping your eyes on the garment in front of you, you greet whoever just walked in, “Welcome.”
Easthies does look up to whoever just entered the shop. Seeing who it was, he stops his movements on your shoulder, pulling his hand away. That absence prompts you to look up as well. To him in question, then to the door in wonder.
Just in front of the door stands a shocked Qifrey, and behind him, an equally shocked Olruggio.
Surprised by their presence, it takes you a bit to speak up again. “Qifrey—and Olruggio?” You stand up and walk towards them. “Where are the girls?” You wonder aloud, peeking around them, seeing the lack of apprentices.
They both continue to look past you towards Easthies, who stares right back at them. They stay silent for what you think is a whole seven minutes, feeling every second pass, before looking at you, then back to Easthies, then back to you again.
They both say nothing for only a little while longer before shouting out in unison, “HIM?!”
You nod, straining your smile, feeling a headache coming on already at the future throw of questions from the two you would call brothers.
hi queen can i request a daryl fic where the girls in the quarry group in season 1 doesnt seem to understand how can daryl and reader be together since he is always grumpy over something and has quite the temper, while reader is very gentle and sweet? but they soon end up noticing that daryl gives her princess treatment🤭 and even with his temper (towards the others ofc) he is actually a good boyfriend?
Scary Dog Privileges
You and Daryl fell in love long before the world met its end, though it seems no matter what you both do, the people you're making camp with can't grasp the concept of you, all frilly and sweet, and Daryl, all temper and rage, finding love together.
A/N: Hello, dear! Thank you so sm for requesting this fic! S1-S2 Daryl is so special to me, since I fell head over heels for his grumpy attitude almost immediately (so immediately MY MOM called me out on it, embarassing I know). I hope I did your request justice! Thank you for being so patient. I know this fic took some time to get out.
CW: 5k words, Established relationship pre-outbreak between Daryl and the reader, reader is an official sunshine! girly and Daryl spoils her rotten but won't admit it, the reader stays behind to help with basics at camp (i.e cooking, cleaning, mending), the reader gets Daryl out of his shell in more ways than you think (wink wonk), Outercourse between a male and female, brief mentions of pregnancy and wanting to avoid it, Daryl being kind of inexperienced and the reader guiding him briefly, Daryl being a grumbly little ball of anger but a softie for the reader, Carol teasing Daryl (besties), written with a plus sized! reader in mind (as always, chubby girls rise up), Petnames (sugar, doll, baby).
The fish aren’t biting today and you're two minutes away from crashing the actual fuck out. You sigh, tugging your borrowed flannel tighter around your shoulders as the wind kicks up, sending ripples across the quarry’s murky water.
Behind you, Carol hums something tuneless while scrubbing a shirt against the washboard, the rhythm steady as a heartbeat. "You’d think after all this time," she says, not looking up, "You'd be better at tellin’ when the fish are just plain stubborn. S’ not your fault, sweetheart."
You smile at her kindness, but it’s half-hearted. Your fingers fiddle with the frayed hem of Daryl’s shirt, the one he’d shrugged off onto shoulders this morning before heading into the woods, muttering about rabbit tracks he'd seen the day before. It still smells like him: sweat, gunpowder, and something stubbornly alive beneath it all.
Andrea tosses a pebble into the water, watching it sink. "How’s it you can stand him, anyway?" The question’s casual, but her eyes flick to you with real curiosity. "Man’s got a temper like a hornet’s nest."
Your cheeks flush pink, fingers tightening around the damp fabric in your hands. "Who, Daryl? Well… He’s not- " you start, then stop, unsure how to explain the Daryl that only you get to see, the one who tucks wildflowers behind your ear when he thinks no one’s looking, the one who builds little makeshift shelves in your tent out of scavenged wood and duct tape for the seashells you keep finding at the quarry.
They'll never understand him.
Carol’s lips quirk as she wrings out a pair of pants. "Oh, I know that look," she says, softer now. "Same one Ed used to give me when we were just kids, ‘fore he decided bein’ mean was easier than lovin’." The words hang heavy between you, the ghost of her bruises left unmentioned. Your heart breaks into pieces for her.
Andrea scoffs, tossing another pebble. "Still don’t get it. Guy snaps at Shane for breathing too loud, but you?" She gestures at the way you’re practically swimming in Daryl’s shirt, the sleeves rolled up almost six times. "He lets you steal his clothes like you're some kinda…"
"Pet," Carol supplies, grinning when you duck your head to try and hide the pink flush crawling up to your pierced ears.
"M’ not his pet," you grumble, but your ears burn hotter when Carol laughs, soft, knowing. The laundry flutters between your fingers, wet and shapeless, and you focus on folding it just to have something to do with your anxious, shaking hands.
"He brings me coffee," you say suddenly as if it's an epiphany, voice small against the quarry’s echo. "Every morning. Even when we’re low. He- uh- he remembers how I like it." Three sugars, no cream, because before the world ended, the corner diner always got it wrong and Daryl would watch you grimace through each bitter sip like a stubborn mule until he'd reach for the sugar packets and fix it himself.
Andrea’s pebble-throwing pauses. "Huh."
Carol’s hands still in the soapy water. "The man ever tell you why?"
You shake your head, pressing the folded shirt to your chest like a temporary shield. "Don’t gotta say it." The words come out quiet, barely louder than the water lapping at the rocks. "He shows me every damn day."
Carol’s eyes soften, but Andrea leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Yeah? How’s that?"
You bite your lip, tracing the stitching on Daryl’s sleeve where it’s come loose. "Last week," you start, voice gaining strength, "he came back from a hunt with his jacket torn up. Blood all over the sleeve." Andrea raises an eyebrow, but you rush on. "Not his. Walkers’. But he- " A laugh bubbles up, unexpected. "He still took it off before comin’ into the tent ‘cause he knows I don’t like the smell. Hung it on a tree branch like some kinda..."
"Gentleman," Carol finishes, grinning when you nod.
The conversation drifts away after that, dissolving into the quiet rhythm of washing and folding, but the warmth of Daryl’s secret kindness lingers under your ribs like a second heartbeat. By the time the sun dips low, casting long shadows across the quarry, you’ve retreated to your tent, the one tucked farther from the group, half-hidden by a thicket of pine. Inside, it’s a nest of mismatched blankets, scavenged trinkets, and the faint, stubborn scent of Daryl’s musk clinging to the fabric walls. You sit cross-legged on your shared rumpled sleeping bag, idly tracing the stitching of his shirt where it’s come loose at the shoulder, when the tent flap rustles, evening light filtering in briefly.
Daryl ducks inside, his silhouette backlit by the dying sun. He’s got a rabbit slung over one shoulder, its fur matted with dried blood, and a paper-wrapped bundle tucked under his arm. “Ain’t much,” he grunts, tossing the bundle into your lap. It’s warm, cornbread, probably scavenged from some abandoned pantry, and still faintly soft. “Figured you’d forget to eat.”
You unfold the paper carefully, revealing a hunk of cornbread, slightly crumbled at the edges. “You remembered,” you whisper in awe, because it’s Tuesday, and before the world ended, Tuesdays were cornbread nights at the diner down the road from your apartment. Daryl just shrugs, but his ears go pink as he busies himself with skinning the rabbit, his knife flashing in the dim light.
He works in silence, the only sound the steady rasp of blade against hide, until he pauses, glancing at you sideways. “Ain’t like you to hide out here, doll,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “Lori’s got that stew goin’ you like. Carol’s been askin’ after you.”
You pick at the cornbread crumbs in your lap, avoiding his gaze. “Wasn’t in the mood for company,” you murmur, but the lie tastes bitter on your tongue. Daryl’s knife stills mid-stroke, his brow furrowing as he studies you, really studies you, the way he does when he’s tracking something through the underbrush.
“Bullshit,” he says bluntly, wiping his hands on his jeans before scooting closer. The rabbit carcass lies forgotten as he nudges your knee with his own. “Spit it out.”
Your throat tightens. “They were talkin’ about you today,” you admit, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. “Andrea said she didn’t get how I could stand your temper. Carol called me your pet.”
Daryl’s nostrils flare, but it’s not anger that flashes across his face, it’s something raw and vulnerable, like a wounded animal caught in a trap. “They ain’t exactly wrong,” he mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck where the sun’s burned it pink. “Know I ain’t easy.”
"You're easy with me," you say softly, reaching out to trace the sunburned curve of his neck before you can stop yourself. Daryl goes still under your touch, his breath hitching like you've pressed against a bruise. "That's all that matters to me.”
His jaw works silently for a moment before he exhales through his nose, rough and ragged. "Still." The word comes out ground between his teeth. "Don't like 'em talkin' 'bout you like that. Like you're less than me, like I control you." The knife in his hand twitches, blade catching the fading light.
You catch his wrist before he can start skinning again, your thumb brushing the pulse point beneath his leather wristband. "They don't know, honey," you croon. "How you bring me coffee. How you built those little fucked up shelves for my shells." Your voice drops to a whisper, the tent walls suddenly too thin. "How you kiss me like I'm something precious even after all this time together."
Daryl's pupils blow wide, the knife slipping from his fingers to thud against the sleeping bag. "Christ, woman,” he breathes, and then his large hands are framing your face, calloused thumbs sweeping over your cheekbones like he's trying to memorize the shape of you. "Ain't never had nothin' half as good as you, you know that," he says, voice cracking on the last word.
His forehead presses against yours, the heat of his skin seeping into you like sunlight through leaves. You can smell the sweat and pine sap clinging to him, the metallic tang of walker blood still lingering under his nails. But when his lips brush yours, hesitant, almost reverent, it’s all you can focus on.
"You’re doin’ it again," you murmur against his mouth, fingers curling into the frayed edges of his vest.
"Doin’ what?" he grumbles, but his hands are already sliding down to grip your hips, tugging you flush against him.
"Talkin’ like you don’t deserve me. You know I hate when you do that." You nip at his bottom lip, grinning when he growls and kisses you harder, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a desperation that makes your toes curl.
Daryl pulls back just enough to glare at you, his breath hot against your lips. "Ain't talkin' like that…" he mutters, but his hands betray him, sliding up under the stolen flannel to trace the dip of your waist. "Just statin' the facts, sugar."
You arch into his touch, biting back a whimper when his calloused thumbs brush the underside of your breasts. "Your facts are stupid," you whine, and he snorts, dragging his mouth down your neck just to hear you gasp. The stubble on his chin rasps against your skin, the sensation sending sparks down your spine.
The cornbread lies forgotten as Daryl maneuvers you onto your back, his body a solid weight between your thighs. He braces himself on one elbow, the other hand still roaming under your shirt like he’s mapping new territory. "Always so damn soft, it drives me crazy," he practically coos against your collarbone, his voice rough with something that isn’t quite disbelief but close enough to make your chest ache.
You hitch a plush leg over his hip, grinding against the hard line of his cock straining against his jeans. Daryl groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. "Quit that," he grits out, but his hips jerk forward anyway, betraying him, seeking friction.
Daryl’s breath hitches when you rock against him again, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises. “Told you- fuckin’ hell woman- quit it,” he growls, but his body betrays him, pressing you deeper into the nest of blankets as his cock twitches against your thigh. You whine, arching up to chase the heat of him, but he pins you down with a rough hand splayed across your stomach.
“Ain’t got no condoms, y'know that,” he grumbles, voice thick with frustration. His nose brushes yours tenderly, close enough you can taste the stale coffee on his breath. “Can’t risk it. Not now. Not when things are like this.”
You squirm under his grip, fingers clawing at his vest. “Don’t need ‘em for what I want,” you pant, tipping your head back when his teeth graze your pulse point. “S’ called outercourse- just- just rub against me, c’mon- ”
Daryl freezes, brow furrowed. The confusion on his face is almost comical, like you’ve just suggested they start selling ice cream in hell. “The fuck’s outercourse?”
You giggle at the bewildered look on his face, cheeks flushing as you reach between your bodies to unbutton his jeans with trembling fingers. "Like this," you murmur, guiding his hand down to the damp heat between your thighs. His breath hitches when your fingers wrap around his cock, hot and heavy in your palm, as you drag him through the slickness gathering there. "Just- just move against me, okay? Can't get pregnant like this."
Daryl makes a strangled noise low in his throat, hips jerking forward instinctively. "Fuck, sugar," he rasps, forehead dropping to yours as you guide him between your thighs, the head of his cock catching against your clit with each shallow thrust. "This- shit- this legal?"
You snort, dragging your nails down his sweat-damp back. "Pretty sure the law ain't exactly a priority anymore, babe."
Daryl groans, hips stuttering as he grinds against you, the rough fabric of his jeans rasping against your inner thighs. "Fuckin' little smartass," he grits out, but there's no heat in it, just that rough, desperate edge that makes your stomach flip. His calloused fingers dig into the swell of your hips as he finds a rhythm, each thrust dragging his cock against your puffy clit in a way that has you biting your lip to keep from crying out and embarrassing both of you in front of the whole camp.
"Quiet, gotta be quiet, baby," he breathes against your ear, nipping at the lobe. "Whole damn camp's gonna hear you."
You whimper, arching into him as his teeth sink into the soft skin of your shoulder, just hard enough to sting. "Daryl- "
Your breath comes in ragged gasps, fingers twisting in Daryl's vest as he moves against you with rough, desperate strokes. Every drag of his cock against your clit sends sparks up your spine, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly. "Daryl," you whimper again, louder this time, and he clamps a hand gently over your mouth with a muttered curse, his hips never slowing.
"Told you- quiet," he growls, but his voice cracks halfway through, his pupils blown wide with want. His other hand slips between your bodies, calloused fingers finding your swollen, slick clit with unerring accuracy. The dual stimulation makes your thighs shake, a broken moan muffled against his palm.
Daryl watches you unravel beneath him with something like reverence, his breath hot against your cheek. "That's it," he croons, thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless circles. "Gonna make you come so damn pretty for me."
You writhe under him, the pressure building unbearably fast, almost overwhelmingly fast. The tent walls feel paper-thin at this point, every rustle of fabric deafening as Daryl's thrusts grow more erratic, his rhythm faltering. His forehead drops to yours, sweat dripping from his temple onto your flushed skin. "Close," he grits out, his voice raw. "Fuck- so close- "
You clench around nothing miserably as Daryl’s fingers work you closer to the edge, your thighs trembling where they bracket his hips. "Please, Daryl- baby-" you whine against his palm, the words muffled but ridiculously needy. His answering groan is ragged, his hips stuttering as he grinds against you with renewed urgency. The head of his cock catches your clit on every thrust, the friction just shy of too much, until it isn't, until pleasure crests like a wave and crashes over you in a shuddering rush.
Daryl’s hand tightens over your mouth as your back arches off the sleeping bag, your cry swallowed by his calloused palm. He watches you with dark, hooded eyes, his breath coming in sharp pants against your temple. "Fuck," he rasps, his hips jerking erratically. "Just- just like that, sugar- " His voice cracks as his own release hits him, his body going rigid above you before he collapses with a muffled grunt, his forehead pressing into the curve of your shoulder.
For a long moment, the only sound is your mingled breathing, harsh and uneven in the quiet of the tent. Daryl’s hand slides from your mouth to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had escaped. "Ain’t never seen nothin’ prettier," he rasps, voice rough with something that makes your chest ache.
You huff a giggle, still boneless beneath him, and nudge his shoulder with your nose. "Even with your hand smotherin’ me?"
Daryl snorts, rolling off you with a grunt, his body still thrumming with leftover heat. He reaches for the discarded flannel beside the sleeping bag, wiping hastily at the mess between your thighs before tossing it into the corner. "Woulda been louder without it," he teases, but there's no bite to it, just that gruff tenderness that still makes your stomach flutter.
You stretch lazily, the muscles in your legs pleasantly sore, and catch him staring at the chubby curve of your hip where his shirt has ridden up. His gaze flickers away when you notice, but not fast enough to hide the way his throat bobs. "What?" you tease, poking his ribs.
"Nothin'." He catches your wrist, pressing your palm flat against his hairy chest where his heartbeat thrums rabbit-quick beneath warm skin. His fingers twine with yours, callouses rough against your knuckles. "Just... you."
The simplicity of it punches the air from your lungs. You squeeze his hand, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. "Daryl Dixon, what a poet you are," you giggle, half-joking to mask the way your voice wavers.
Daryl scowls at your teasing, but his fingers tighten around yours,.anchoring, possessive. “Ain’t poetic,” he grumbles, rolling onto his side to face you. The fading light catches the scar above his eyebrow and you trace it without thinking, and he stills under your touch, his breath hitching like it’s the first time you’ve ever touched him.
“You are, though,” you murmur, and his brow furrows deeper. “In your own way.” You press a kiss to the scar, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. “Like when you patched my Chuck Taylors with duct tape ‘cause you knew they were my favorite.”
Daryl’s ears go pink. He swats halfheartedly at your shoulder. “Shut up, Christ almighty.” But his voice lacks its usual bite, softened by the way his thumb strokes circles into your palm. The silence stretches, comfortable, until his stomach growls loudly enough to startle a laugh out of you.
“Forgot about the cornbread,” you admit sheepishly, reaching for the crumpled paper packet. It’s cold now, the edges brittle, but Daryl snatches it from your hands before you can take a bite.
Daryl scowls at the stale cornbread like it's personally offended him, then shoves half into his mouth in one bite. Crumbs stick to his stubble as he chews, glaring at the tent wall like it’s hiding answers. You giggle, reaching up to brush them away, but he catches your wrist, turning your palm to press a kiss to the center. The gesture’s so sudden, so un-Daryl-like, your breath catches.
"Still tastes like shit," he laughs against your skin, but his lips curve just enough to betray him.
You wiggle your fingers free to poke his ribs again. "Hmmm, maybe. But I know you scavenged it from that gas station pantry just ‘cause you remembered it’s Tuesday.
Though he doesn't deny it outright.
His scowl deepens, but his hands betray him again, tugging you closer until you’re sprawled half on top of him. The rabbit carcass lies forgotten by the tent flap, its blood seeping into the dirt. Daryl’s fingers trace idle patterns down your spine, rough enough to raise goosebumps. "Ain’t like I got a damn calendar, jus’ knew you needed dinner," he grumbles, pink flushing his face.
His fingers pause mid-stroke when he feels the tremor run through you, not from cold, but from the way his blunt honesty still surprises you sometimes. The way he remembers things no one else would. Your nose presses into the hollow of his throat, breathing in sweat and gunpowder and something stubbornly Daryl. "You're fulla shit, babe," you murmur, but your lips curve against his skin when his chest rumbles with a sound too soft to be a laugh.
The cornbread crumbs itch where they’ve scattered between your bare thighs, sticking to the sweat still drying on your skin. Daryl’s fingers pause their lazy tracing of your spine to pluck one away, flicking it into the dark corner of the tent with a grunt. “Messy girl,” he mutters, but there’s no real insult behind it. He'd never and you know it.
You nuzzle deeper into the crook of his neck, smiling when his stubble scratches your forehead. “Your fault,” you murmur, dragging a fingertip through the trail of crumbs on his chest. “Shoulda let me eat it proper.”
Daryl huffs, catching your wandering hand in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, calluses catching on the delicate skin there. “Ain’t my fault you got distracted,” he says, but his voice dips low, roughened at the edges in a way that sends warmth pooling low in your belly again.
Outside, the campfire crackles, voices drifting on the wind, Shane’s booming laugh, Carol’s quiet murmur. The sounds feel distant, muffled by the thick canvas of your tent and the steady thump of Daryl’s heartbeat beneath your ear. You press closer, inhaling the scent of him, pine resin and gun oil, the metallic tang of the rabbit’s blood still clinging to his vest where it’s discarded beside the sleeping bag.
Daryl’s fingers tighten around yours as the campfire voices grow louder, Shane’s boisterous storytelling punctuated by Glenn’s nervous laughter. You feel the tension coil in Daryl’s shoulders beneath your cheek, his breath hitching like he’s bracing for impact. “Ignore ‘em, it's just me and you here,” you coo, pressing a kiss to the jut of his collarbone. His grunt is noncommittal, but his thumb strokes your wrist in silent thanks for the knowing comfort.
The tent flap rustles suddenly, not from wind, but from the deliberate shuffle of feet outside. “Y’all decent?” Carol’s voice is amused, muffled through the canvas. Daryl stiffens, his grip on you tightening possessively. You bite back a laugh at the way his ears flush crimson.
“No,” he barks, but you’re already wriggling free, scrambling for his discarded angel vest to cover yourself. Daryl snatches it back with a growl, shoving it into your chest again. “Wear it proper,” he practically commands, pointedly avoiding your eyes as he yanks his jeans up over his pale hips.
You button the vest with fumbling fingers just as Carol’s head pokes through the flap. Her eyes dart between Daryl’s disheveled hair and your swollen pink lips, her smirk widening. “Dinner’s ready,” she says, too innocently. “Brought y’all bowls since you were... occupied.”
Daryl's arm snakes around your waist like a steel band, yanking you back against his chest with a growl that vibrates through your shoulder blades. "We're good, thanks," he barks at Carol, his free hand snatching the offered bowls with more force than necessary. The stew sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
Carol's smirk doesn't falter. She lingers just a heartbeat too long, eyes flicking to the scattered cornbread crumbs and the way Daryl's vest hangs open on you, barely covering your thighs. "Mmhm," she hums, dragging the sound out like taffy before ducking back out. The tent flap falls shut with a whisper of canvas, but not before you catch her muttering, "Lovebirds."
You bury your face in Daryl's shoulder to muffle the giggle threatening to escape. His grip tightens. "Ain't funny," he grumbles, but his lips brush your temple in contradiction, lingering just long enough to make your toes curl.
The stew smells rich, rabbit, judging by the gamey scent, but Daryl sets both bowls aside without tasting them. Instead, his fingers find the loose threads at the shoulder of his vest where you've been worrying at them all week. "Gotta fix this," he mutters, more to himself than you, his calloused thumb rubbing circles over the frayed fabric.
Daryl's fingers still on the loose threads, his brow furrowing in that way it does when he's turning something over in his head. You watch the familiar crease form between his eyebrows, the one you've traced with your fingertips more times than you can count. Without thinking, you reach up to smooth it away, and his gaze snaps to yours, startled, like he'd forgotten you were there.
"Quit fussin' on me, woman," he groans, but he leans into your touch anyway, his stubble rasping against your palm. His hand drops to your knee, thumb brushing the sensitive skin just above where his vest ends. The contrast makes you shiver, rough hands touching you so softly it aches.
Outside, Shane's voice rises above the others, followed by a burst of laughter that sounds horrifically forced. Daryl's fingers twitch against your thigh, his jaw tightening. "What a fuckin’ asshole," he mutters under his breath, but there's no real heat behind it, just exhaustion, the kind that settles deep in his bones after too many days with too little sleep.
You catch his hand, pressing a kiss to his scarred knuckles. "Eat," you prompt gently, nodding toward the forgotten stew. "Before it gets cold."
Daryl scowls at the bowls like they've personally insulted him, but his stomach growls loud enough to make you snort. He mutters something about "damn traitorous guts" before snatching up the nearest bowl, shoving a spoonful into his mouth with all the grace of a starving wolf. Steam curls around his lips as he chews, his brow furrowing deeper with each bite.
"Carol put rosemary in it," he grumbles around a mouthful, nose wrinkling. "Tastes like a hotel's fuckin' potpourri."
You giggle, stealing his spoon for a taste. The herbs are overwhelming, definitely Carol's doing, her attempt at "civilizing" camp meals, but beneath it, you can still taste the careful balance of salt Daryl always insists on when he cooks game. "You seasoned it," you accuse, licking the spoon clean.
Daryl's ears flush pink. He swipes the utensil back with more force than necessary. "Ain't my fault she ruins good meat, was tryin’ to fix it," he grumbles, but his shoulders relax incrementally as he eats, the tension bleeding out of him with each spoonful.
The stew bowl scrapes against the tent floor as Daryl sets it aside, half-finished. His fingers find the curve of your knee again, where his vest rides up, tracing idle circles that raise goosebumps. Outside, the campfire laughter swells, Glenn's nervous giggle, Shane's annoying booming voice, but Daryl's touch anchors you, rough and sure.
plot: while working on a case with L to catch kira, you start to catch feelings for him, and so does he. problem is, though, you’re both just… really, really awkward.
this was a request based on this ask 💟 i hope this is what you wanted / themes: feelings realisation with followed up tension, written with an x f!reader in mind, suggestive language towards the end but as a thought, nothing happens! • w.c: 2.8k
When you met L the first time, if you were honest, he did not make a good first impression on you. He was rude, impassive and arrogant, and the way he isolated himself was frustrating at best. Still, your superior officer left no room for argument, telling you, “I just have a feeling that you two will get along.”
As a hopeful detective, still new to the scene and eager to prove yourself, you took what you got. It was so rare for someone your age to get assigned to cases that meant something more beyond being a coffee mule, so you took the opportunity very seriously, regardless. You just didn’t understand why you had to work with someone that everyone else found so difficult.
Although later, you got it: you were perfect for each other.
For if L was the brains, then you were the eyes and the ears.
And the force needed you both, because the Kira case was the most maddening thing it had ever known.
After all, it was a case of endless reports and unexplained deaths, following such precise patterns that were so precise that the whole situation just felt… wrong, in a way that wasn’t natural. You’d seen criminals with all sorts of egos, vendettas and levels, but this was something far more complex and isolated.
It managed to shake even the most hardened veterans on the force nationwide.
Except L—who sat there from day to day—seemingly unfazed.
When you first met him, he was midway through spooning a horrendous amount of sugar into a cup of milky tea, studying patterns on a whole spread of screens that were stretched around a dark room. You thought he looked almost ghostly then, pale with wide, staring eyes with tired bags beneath them that begged him for respite.
His indifference annoyed you at first.
Until you understood that it was just all… focus.
Real and raw determination that glinted behind his tired eyes, that was so strong that he had forgotten how to sleep, how to eat, let alone anything else. His attendants were the ones who were shoving food directly into his mouth when he stayed in there too long—and for cases when he stayed up far beyond what should have been healthy—he was forced to sleep then, too.
And as frustrating as he was, you found yourself admiring him.
Which was why, when he cracked a crucial lead, you decided to do something nice for him:
Something small.
You were so careful with it, too, setting down a plastic container beside him on his desk the first thing in the morning.
“That flaw you caught out in Kira’s behaviour was incredible,” you softly praised before clearing your throat. “Heard you have a bit of a sweet tooth, so I got you something as a sign to keep it up.”
However, L didn’t seem too pleased—turning his nose at the offering—pushing it away.
“I don’t like caramel,” he stated flatly.
You blinked in disbelief. “What? But I was told that—”
“I like sweet things, yes,” he clarified in a tone that was not unkind, tucking his knees against his chest to hide his discomfort in the confrontation, “but… I don’t like caramel. It is too sweet.”
“H-hang on,” you stammered, “I’ve seen you eat sugar cubes straight from the jar.”
L simply shrugged at your accusation. “That’s a different type of sweet.”
You inhaled sharply at his words, forcing yourself to take a long, deep breath, because the alternative meant losing your composure on the spot and potentially getting taken off the case.
“Alright,” you said with a strained smile, “I’ll go for something else next time. Like… a nice, plain sponge.”
“Not plain,” he corrected you without missing a beat.
Your eyes twitched slightly. “Please.”
He shakily blinked at you. “I would actually prefer if you didn’t bring me cake at all, if you intended to reward me.”
“But you did a good job, and I wanted to do something nice for you,” you quickly replied, defending your actions.
“And it was unnecessary,” he corrected you.
Another deep breath passed through you. “Alright. It won’t happen again.”
L tilted his head to the other side that time. “You sound irritated.”
“I wonder why,” you muttered.
He paused for a moment before attempting to continue the conversation. “Did I do something wrong? I don’t always read people so well.”
You forced a smile and shook your head. “No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you admitted, blinking away from him for a moment. “Maybe I was the one who overstepped.”
Then, as the silence settled between you both, and you returned to work as normal, a deep sense of horror rooted in your gut. It was a feeling so uneasy that it shocked you. A sweeping sort of realisation that vibrated beneath your skin, as you understood that his pushing you away didn’t make you angry, nor sad, but quite the opposite—it pulled you closer.
Had anyone else dared to interact with you in such a manner—had they challenged your gesture, your patience, your kindness—you would have marched into the office of your superior and would have demanded reassignment, the consequences be damned.
L didn’t give you that feeling, though.
He left you wanting him.
Which infuriated you, because you could not understand for the life of you, as to why.
~*~
Fast forward to a couple of days, and the mood inside the workspace felt more suffocating than ever before. A crushing tension had risen and filled the air with an unseen humidity which was thick as it was draining. The Kira investigation had stalled yet again, and the silence between everyone directly working on it had turned brittle; even breathing or clearing one’s throat felt like it might trigger something volatile.
You felt it the most through L, strangely enough. Not that he was too big on talking to begin with, but he had his tells. You just so happened to understand what exactly they were. What you once perceived as an unwavering calm was not the case at all. The fact that he remedied his stressed state with short hums, and fingers that tapped impatiently on his desk with creased brows and bleeding lips—was clear that he was not feeling like himself either.
Then, suddenly, when everyone else had surrendered to the quiet, L stood upright at once.
It made almost everyone, but especially you, jump.
“This might be it,” he muttered, quietly at first, then again, louder that time so that everyone else could hear. “I think that I might have a lead.”
Quickly, he brought up a seemingly insignificant pattern in the timestamps displayed on his screen. At first glance, it seemed like nothing, but in the context of an ongoing investigation, it was a solid thread that could threaten to unravel everything else.
It was a connection.
“Incredible,” someone else leaned in, their words becoming hazy and muffled as you fixated on L with an almost devoted focus, “whoever Kira is… this narrows down the potential identity to a mere handful of candidates.”
The room shifted, and everyone around you seemed to breathe for what felt like the first time in days.
However, you just about collapsed with relief.
All of that pressure—all of that dread—the sleepless nights, the fear that the case was slipping further and further away—broke something inside of you and before you could register what you were even doing, before your thoughts caught up to what you had just committed to—you—you—
—kissed him.
Kissed L.
On the mouth.
His lips were soft, parted slightly in surprise, staring at you with his wide, exhausted, but ultimately shocked eyes.
You froze.
You stumbled back a short moment later, staring back at him with a look that could have perfectly mirrored his own. A bright and furious blush spread across his cheeks—so vivid that it looked almost scalding—as if you had scorched him.
“I’m—I-I I’m so sorry—” you began, gasping wildly, your breath catching on every word. “I-I didn’t— I-I mean, oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
Within a flash, you bent over to grab your documents, dropping them a few times in the process. Several curses left your lips as you struggled to retain your composure. Even Watari turned away quietly, avoiding your gaze, like he hadn’t seen what just happened at all.
L, meanwhile, remained quiet.
You tried to skirt around the desks, tripping over nothing, apologising so quickly that the words came out all jumbled. Your voice rose in pitch, and tears pricked at your eyes over the sheer amount of embarrassment you felt right then and there.
“I didn’t mean it—no—I did mean it, but not like—not like that—I wasn’t thinking—I’m so sorry—pretend that it didn’t happen—or—no—”
At that point, too, you were almost ready to fake your own death.
Maybe even move overseas to somewhere new.
Then, you heard a soft voice behind you, just as you were about to leave entirely.
“Wait,” L called out.
You stopped, but you didn’t turn around.
“So… it’s like that,” he followed up, not quite talking to you that time, rather to himself.
You weren’t sure what he meant, but truth be told, L didn’t fully understand either—because it was his first time feeling something like this, too.
Giving it a few more agonising seconds, you slipped out completely that time, letting the door click shut, leaving everyone behind in the awkward, now-charged silence.
All the while, L stared at the space where you had been, his fingers pressed to his lips, a furious blush staining his cheeks, and wondered why, for the first time in his life, his thoughts felt like an unsolved case.
~*~
The next time you saw L, you made sure to set your expression to something that looked professionally unavailable. If anyone would tease you for it, or bring it up at all, you would tell them that it was their tired mind playing tricks on them—anything to disguise the fact that you had kissed him and then fled the room.
You even arrived early, hoping to set the record straight, but then your superior officer intercepted you on your way in.
“Heard you and L had a moment,” he brought up.
Your soul just about left your body, a small, unheard curse uttered out of your lips as your eyes screwed shut for just a moment. You blinked up to meet his gaze, your face suddenly unsure and ashamed. “S-Sir, I can explain—”
Though all he did was wave his hand dismissively. “It’s alright. You’re not in trouble. It’s surprisingly common in high-pressure environments.”
You blinked again. “...What?”
He left out a soft laugh. “But L? That guy? Really? I’m just surprised that’s all. Didn’t think he would be your type.”
“This is so humiliating,” you said, bowing your head in continued shame. “I’d rather have you fire me.”
He patted your shoulder with a shrug. “Relax,” he soothed. “It’s just… surprising. That guy doesn’t notice much beyond the pixels on his screen. If he even looked up from it, then…” he trailed off, his weathered face wrinkling with thought, “perhaps it isn’t as one-sided as you think.”
Then, just like that, he walked off, leaving you frozen in the middle of the hallway, looking mortified.
Swallowing your pride, your panic, and everything else since that fateful incident, you marched back to L’s surveillance room, trying to move on without sacrificing what was left of your dignity even more.
L was sitting inside like usual, hunched over his keyboard, in deep focus. Or, no, he wasn’t. You knew him well by now: his tapping was off-beat, his posture was rigid, he wasn’t even working, but rather staring at a blank spot on his screen.
You cleared your throat. “I’ve managed to triangulate the possible operation zones based on Kira’s patterns. If we combine it with the previous analysis, then maybe we can narrow—”
L nodded quickly. “Yeah. You can leave the files here.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “But you’re not even looking.”
“I am,” he replied, almost mechanically.
You placed down the documents anyway, taking a moment to observe him and just see in general how he was doing. L sifted through the data, skimming idly through the files, but his fingers twitched whenever he heard you shift or breathe or exist. His brain was just as addled as yours, because, well, you kissed him.
He tried throwing himself back into work, just like you did, but every single thought in his head was stuck on that instance.
He had never been this distracted in his entire life.
Not that you were doing any better—no matter how much you tried to move on—your mind drifted to the very same thought, too.
Then, finally, after roughly half an hour of excruciating and tense silence of trying to function and work side by side like professionals, the silence finally broke.
L took a deep breath, sighing.
“About last—”
You froze. “—Oh, that was nothi—”
“Wait,” he tried to catch you again before you dismissed him entirely.
Though you could still only shake your head. “I’m so sorry, okay, I really am. It was unprofessional of me, and I didn’t think—”
Your breath caught, and you couldn’t quite finish your words, nor could L reply for a long time, but then, his throat cleared. “It was… mutual,” he went on to reveal.
You went silent, staring at him, unable to respond at all.
Then finally, you managed to blurt something out. “Wait… what?”
L didn’t dare to look up anymore, choosing to return to work, or at least try to do so.
“No, wait,” you called out, taking a step closer. “Can you please elaborate on that?”
Though he didn’t reply. His knuckles might have tensed and his jaw might have tightened, but he didn’t act on anything else.
“Fine,” you softly scoffed, letting out a frustrated sigh, refusing to be humiliated a second time. “We’ll just move on from this, alright? It never happened. Let’s just… focus on work and then I’ll be reassigned and… you’ll never have to see me again after.”
L’s breath caught and he gulped down everything that raced in his mind that he just couldn’t tell you. He wanted to reciprocate with equal indifference, to pretend that it was all fine, but he internally battled with the part that struggled to confess, because he just wasn’t good with expressing his feelings.
Therefore, L remained quiet, unable to tell you anything else. What he couldn’t tell you was that he was focusing on you—but all of you—your lips, the way your eyelashes fluttered, the way your clothes sat on your body and what must have been underneath. That’s right. He couldn’t admit it. He couldn’t tell you that just the kiss left him wondering what more there was.
And beyond even the lust, how he didn’t want you to be reassigned, how he wanted to work more with you. How he wanted to see you every morning now, how you could probably now get him cake if you wanted to. How he liked having someone that for once, he got along with. How he liked your mind and how it worked—but—he was left frozen on the spot.
Though, it wasn’t just him who was grappling with oneself, for you too, were overcome with all sorts of things.
Had you been a little bolder or if had he hinted towards anything at all that could be deciphered as reciprocated interest, then…
You swallowed it all down, even if you did want to know…
More of what he was like, whether he would be shy in bed or if he would be gentle or if that’s where he would show his passion—whether or not he matched the stereotype of a shy nerdy guy with an absolutely big cock—if he would finish quickly or focus too much on you.
Or, if he was loving, if he was gentle, if he’d notice all the little things about you like he did while at work and life with him would be easier than every other guy you’ve ever come across. You wondered how you’d spend your time with him if you were together, if you’d be more of the indoorsy type or if you’d quietly go places and just… exist together.
That sounded nice.
(But then you choked on your own breath.)
You exhaled deeply, crossing your arms in irritation, trying to hide how you were overcome with a new realisation—different from the one from before—because you had just learned that L liked you too, and that he was equally as terrible at dealing with it.
Which meant that this case just got a hundred times more complicated.
(Because what did that mean for you both from now on?)
(And just how on earth where you going to resolve something like… this?)
pairing: Clarisse La Rue x reader
fandom: Percy Jackson & the Olympians
setting: Camp Half-Blood
contents: jealousy, tension, emotionally confused clarisse, confession, first kiss, aphrodite!reader
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Clarisse spent the entire next day avoiding you.
Which was difficult.
Because apparently you were everywhere.
She saw you at breakfast, laughing with some girls from Cabin Ten. She immediately looked away and focused very hard on stabbing her eggs with unnecessary force.
Then she saw you again near the lake.
Then again near the training arena.
Each time, her chest did the same annoying thing.
That tight, twisting feeling she still refused to properly acknowledge.
Across the table, an Ares camper frowned.
“You okay?”
Clarisse shot him a glare.
“Do I look like I want to talk about it?”
He immediately shut up.
—
Later that afternoon Clarisse was in the arena again, sparring harder than necessary.
Her opponent stumbled back after another heavy hit.
“Gods, La Rue,” he muttered, raising his hands. “Did someone break your heart or something?”
Clarisse scoffed.
“As if.”
But the words felt a little too defensive.
Her mind kept replaying the night before.
The way you’d looked at her.
The way she’d almost—
She shoved the thought away and slammed her spear into a target.
Hard.
—
You found her that evening.
Of course you did.
Clarisse had just finished cleaning her spear when she heard footsteps behind her.
She didn’t need to turn around to know it was you.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Your voice was calm.
Clarisse sighed heavily and turned.
“I’m not avoiding you.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“You literally walked away when I said hi at lunch.”
“I had somewhere to be.”
“You were walking toward the lake.”
“Exactly.”
You stared at her.
Clarisse shifted slightly under the look, clearly irritated.
“What?”
You stepped closer.
“Why did you freak out last night?”
“I didn’t freak out.”
“You absolutely did.”
Clarisse rubbed her temples.
“Can we just drop it?”
“No.”
Your voice was softer now, but firm.
“You got mad because I talked to someone else. Then you almost said something. Then you ran away.”
Clarisse opened her mouth.
Closed it.
You took another step closer.
“Clarisse.”
She looked down at you.
Gods, you were close.
Too close.
Your voice dropped slightly.
“Why do you care so much?”
Clarisse’s jaw tightened.
For a long moment she didn’t answer.
Then she muttered quietly,
“…because I don’t like him.”
“That’s not it.”
You were smiling slightly now.
Like you already knew.
Clarisse groaned.
“You’re so annoying.”
“And you’re deflecting.”
Silence stretched between you.
Finally, Clarisse ran a hand through her hair in frustration.
“Because I don’t like seeing you with other people, okay?”
Your expression softened.
“Why?”
Clarisse stared at you like you’d just asked the most impossible question in the world.
“Because I—”
She stopped.
Clearly debating whether she wanted to say the words.
You waited.
Clarisse exhaled sharply.
“Because I like you.”
The words came out fast, like ripping off a bandage.
You blinked.
For once, you were speechless.
Clarisse immediately looked defensive.
“Don’t make it a big deal.”
“Clarisse—”
“And if you’re gonna reject me or whatever just do it quickly because—”
You grabbed the front of her armor and pulled her down slightly.
Then you kissed her.
Clarisse froze.
Completely.
For about half a second.
Then her hand came up instinctively to your waist, pulling you closer.
The kiss deepened quickly—messy, intense, and a little desperate.
Very Clarisse.
When you finally pulled back, she looked slightly stunned.
“…oh.”
You laughed softly.
“That’s your reaction?”
Clarisse shook her head, still processing.
“You kissed me.”
“You said you liked me.”
She paused.
Then her expression slowly shifted into something smug.
“Yeah.”
Her hand tightened slightly at your waist.
“And you didn’t seem very surprised.”
You smiled.
“I’m an Aphrodite kid.”
Clarisse snorted.
“Right.”
Then she leaned down again.
“Good to know.”
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a/n: part two because someone asked for it and i could never say no to jealous clarisse <3
Summary: You set out to rescue your mother and punish Wanda Maximoff, but the closer you get, the more control slips from your hands. I mean did you really think you'd be any match for the Scarlet Witch?
-OR-
A little fighting with Wanda turns into a masterclass in why brats shouldn’t bite. One wrong move, and you’re pinned, teased, and scolded until you’re gasping, writhing, and questioning when you can make this happen again.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, top Wanda, AgathaRio daughter reader, dom/sub themes, Wanda is kinda mean and reader is kinda bratty, restraints/bondage, gags, oral sex, scissoring, mild dacryphilia, cum eating
Words: 3.1k
A/N: Turns out writing for an entirely different character meant it bypassed my writing slump lol
AO3 | Masterlist
The boundary of Westview glows faintly against the night sky, a strange shimmer that ripples like moonlight on the ocean. You’ve walked countless roads chasing whispers, pored over scraps of forbidden pages, clawed at every lead the Darkhold refused to yield. And now, after years of searching, you stand at the edge of discovery.
Your pulse hammers as you press forward. The town itself is whole, ordinary, almost unsettling in its perfection. Children ride their bikes along neat streets, neighbours chat across white-picket fences, porch lights flick on as dusk deepens. It looks normal. But beneath the veneer, you can still feel the faint hum of magic.
And then, there she is.
Your mother.
Agatha sits at a porch table with her hands folded in her lap, dressed in a cardigan that isn’t hers and a neighbourly smile stretched across her face. The sight catches in your chest. She’s never looked like this. Your mother was sharp-edged and knowing, a storm in human form; never soft, never prim, and never the type to play house.
“Mom!” The word tears out of you before you can stop it. Your steps quicken, stumbling toward her. “Mama! Oh my god, I’ve found you. I’ve finally found you.”
Agatha looks up, startled. But there’s no recognition in her eyes, only polite confusion. “Oh! Well, hello there dear. I think you have me confused with someone else but what a pleasure it is to meet you.” Her smile widens, pleasant and fixed. “I’m Agnes O’Connor. Are you new to the neighbourhood?”
The name hits you like a slap. You shake your head, “No. No, no, no. You’re not Agnes. You’re my mom, your name is Agatha Harkness. Mami—I mean Rio—and I have been looking for you for so long.” Your voice cracks, but you manage to push the words out.
She only tilts her head, that saccharine smile unwavering. “Agatha? Oh, goodness no, you must be mistaken. But you look tired, sugar. Why don’t you come inside for a nice cup of tea? I make a mean chamomile.”
Her tone is light, so perfectly not her that it makes your stomach twist. You study her face, willing the truth to surface, but her eyes are empty. Her gestures too smooth, her voice too sweet, her movements no longer her own. She isn’t acting. She actually believes what she’s saying.
The realisation guts you. You had nightmares of finding her broken, scarred, furious even, but never this. Not this hollow parody, this marionette smiling on strings.
Rage bubbles up, bitter and sharp, spilling out of you in a whisper: “She did this to you.” Your fists clench until your nails bite your palms. Louder now, chest heaving: “She didthis.”
The porch, the street, the entire picture-perfect lie blurs at the edges as your vision burns with fury. You stumble back from the your mom, every breath jagged, and there’s only one thought left, pounding in your skull like a war drum.
If you can’t break the spell, then you’ll break the woman who cast it.
—
Rio Vidal doesn’t look pleased when you arrive at her door. Her sharp eyes cut into you like glass, taking in your ragged breath, the crackling static of magic still prickling across your skin. Her expression softens then reaches out, brushing your temple with her fingers before pressing a fleeting kiss to the top of your head. It’s instinctive, protective, the kind of gesture that betrays how much of her heart belongs to you and to the woman you’ve both lost.
Then, just as quickly, the softness vanishes. She straightens, jaw tight, shoulders squared, armour back in place.
“You found her, didn’t you?” she says flatly.
“She’s trapped,” you snap, shoving past her. “Caged like some pet. Mami, that bitch did this, I know it. And you—” your voice shakes, “you’re going to help me find her.”
Rio’s silence lingers long enough to sting. Then she laughs once, low and mirthless. “You are your mother’s child. Hot-headed and reckless. Do you have any idea who you’re asking me to lead you to?”
Your eyes flare. “I don’t care what it takes. She took Mom. She doesn’t get to walk away from that.”
The air between you hums with tension. Rio studies you, sees the grief and fury tearing you apart, and though she doesn’t soften again, you catch the flicker of something in her gaze. Pain. Love. A shared rage.
She only points, her voice sharp as a blade. “Then follow it to the source.”
—
You don’t wait. You don’t hesitate. You go and find the Scarlet Witch.
Her figure stands at the edge of a shattered field, red wisps coiling lazily around her hands as if the universe bends for her amusement. She doesn’t look startled. She only watches you approach, expression unreadable.
Your fury erupts before she can speak. Bolts of purple energy crackle from your fingertips, slamming into the ground at her feet. The ground quakes, the air scorches, the night tears itself open under your rage.
“Give her back!” you roar, magic spiralling from your fists. You hurl spell after spell, each one wilder than the last.
Wanda raises a single hand. Scarlet threads weave into a shield, effortlessly fluid. Every blow you launch shatters against her, a storm striking stone. Her gaze doesn’t even flicker.
She steps forward. One measured pace.
“You’re loud,” she says, voice soft but cutting, “but messy.”
You scream and strike again, raw power tearing the ground between you.
Another step and more red light hums at her fingertips. “Your mother taught you better than this, didn’t she?”
The taunt cuts deep making you lash out with both hands, purple fire bursting from your palms, only to be dissolved in her red glow.
Another step. She’s close enough now that you can see the curve of her mouth—it’s almost like she’s enjoying herself. “Is this what you call revenge? Throwing sparks until you burn yourself out?”
Her words dig under your skin. You pour everything into one final strike, a beam of energy so fierce it splits the air with a scream. She catches it in her palm, twists her wrist, and the spell unravels like thread.
With a flick of her fingers, she binds you. Crimson coils snap around your wrists and ankles, suspending you in the air like a fly caught in a web. You thrash, magic surging, but then it falters, and you spot the runes glowing faintly on the ground beneath you.
Wanda steps closer, eyes glinting with amusement. “It’s cute,” she says softly, “watching you try and fight. But this isn’t how good girls behave.”
“I hate you,” you spit, though your voice trembles.
Her smirk deepens as she tilts her head, closing the distance until her breath grazes your lips. “Hate me all you want. It doesn’t change what you are: weak”
You twist against the bindings, chest heaving. “Fuck you bitch.”
Scarlet light curls under your chin, forcing your gaze up to hers. “Ungrateful brat,” she says, her tone more indulgent than furious, almost as if your resistance entertains her. “I could offer you purpose. But it seems you’d rather throw a tantrum.”
The words sting and before you can try and break free from her restraints the world shatters; the field dissolves and in the blink of an eye you’re slammed against sheets. The bindings tighten as you sink into the mattress, her presence looming above you.
Your lungs claw for air.
Her lips drag along your jaw, teeth scraping at the curve of your neck. Heat sparks down your spine. You try to twist away defiantly, but the involuntary moan that shudders through the silence betrays you. Shame and desire tangle viciously in your chest.
Her hand slides across your waist, thumb pressing into your hip as if marking her territory. “See?” she whispers against your skin, her voice silk wrapped around steel. “You can’t deny me.”
For a heartbeat, you almost spit back another denial. But the heat pooling in your stomach stops you. The press of her body, the weight of her gaze, the intoxicating pull of her magic—part of you recoils, but another part, deep down, aches for it. Maybe you’ve wanted this all along, buried under your rage. Maybe you want her.
The thought crashes through you just as her mouth claims yours. The kiss is all teeth and heat, lips colliding with bruising insistence. You match her passion, refusing to yield, until your teeth sink down hard enough to draw a sharp gasp from her.
Scarlet light explodes instantly. Bonds lash tighter, forcing your body flat against the bed, chest pinned beneath invisible hands. Her eyes burn with dark promise as her magic coils around your clothes, leaving your skin bare against the chill of the room.
In a blink, she stands naked above you, a goddess draped in power. She tilts her head, looking over you with slow, deliberate possession, savouring every inch.
“You want to fight?” Wanda’s voice is a threat. “Then you’ll learn what happens to brats who bite.”
Her hand presses down against your throat, red threads binding you tighter than ever. With a flick of her fingers, another coil of magic slips up, curling over your mouth, gagging you in an instant.
It hums with a low vibration against your skin, thrumming every time you breathe. You fight it, a muffled sound escaping, but she only smirks and leans close enough that her breath ghosts hot against your ear.
“That’ll shut you up,” she says. “Can’t have my little brat telling lies trying to tell me she doesn’t want this.” Her tone roughens, and the knowing curl of her smile tells you she’s enjoying the way you strain beneath her.
You should hate it, hate her. I mean you certainly did a couple of hours ago. But the second the gag vibrates with the sound of your ragged breathing, a shiver slides down your spine, arousal searing your own body as heat coils low inside you.
Wanda kisses you through the gag once, a mocking press of lips, then begins her descent. Her mouth traces the sharp edge of your jaw. She takes her time at your throat, tongue teasing the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat, teeth scraping where your skin is most tender. A sound bursts from you, swallowed by the gag, and Wanda chuckles against your collarbone.
One hand slides over your breast, fingers teasing the sensitive flesh while her mouth follows the same path, nipping and tracing circles around your nipples. The dual sensation leaves you gasping, chest rising and falling against her.
The air feels too thin; every nerve tuned to her touch. She kisses down your stomach, the flick of her tongue circling your navel before moving further. At your hip she pauses, her breath feathering over you, and the way she holds herself there makes you tremble.
Her path drifts to your thigh, lips brushing the skin above your knee, a light scrape of teeth makes you buck against the bonds. Then she shifts back upward, each kiss inside your thigh slower than the last. The closer she gets, the harder you strain against her magic, every part of you desperate and aching.
Finally, she stops just above the apex of your thighs. Her mouth hovers for a heartbeat and then sticks out her tongue dragging it through your cunt.
The sensation rips through you. Heat surges, your body jerking despite the magical bindings that hold you flat to the bed. A muffled cry tears from your throat, your hips twitching toward her without thought, betraying how badly you crave more.
Wanda’s laugh is soft and wicked, lips brushing sensitive skin as she looks up at you. Her tongue parts your lips again, slower this time, making you quiver. Every nerve screams, every inch of you strung tight between shame and hunger.
Her tongue continues to switch between circling your clit and pushing into your seeping hole. The heat of her mouth is unbearable, every flick of her tongue a shockwave that races up your spine and makes your stomach clench.
You buck against the bonds, gag muffling the desperate sound torn from your throat. She only holds you firmer, one hand pressing into your thigh, keeping you wide for her, keeping you trapped.
Her pace is wickedly precise. Every stroke of her tongue pulls another gasp from your chest, another quiver from your legs, until the world narrows to nothing but the heat of her mouth and the crackling magic searing your skin. Your vision blurs, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the force of it.
And then it’s all too much for you. The pressure explodes all at once, your body convulsing as waves of your orgasm crash through you, shudder after shudder wracking your frame. You whimper, hips jerking helplessly as you’re stripped bare of control.
When the tremors finally ease, you collapse into the mattress, chest heaving. The gag dissolves, threads unwinding with a snap of her fingers. Wanda lifts her head, lips glistening and eyes blazing with triumph.
“Open your mouth,” she orders. “Tongue out.”
You obey before you can think, lips parting, tongue trembling as you open as wide as you can. Wanda dives between your thighs once more lapping at the mess there before moving up your body. The sight alone makes your cheeks burn with shame. She doesn’t stop until she’s hovering above you. She squeezes your jaw, forcing it wider, before she lets the mixture of cum and spit drip onto your tongue.
Her eyes burn into yours as she commands, “Swallow.”
You obey, throat working around the taste, heat flooding your cheeks. Wanda watches every movement with hungry satisfaction, then crushes her mouth against yours. Her tongue drives deep, shoving the taste further down, forcing you to savour it until your head spins. When you gasp against her mouth she bites down. The smirk that follows is merciless.
“You think you get to bite me and walk away unscathed?” she says, her breath hot against your lips. “No, darling. You’re mine to break.”
Her hand catches your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks until your mouth opens for her again. She shoves three fingers past your lips, down against your tongue, forcing you to taste the sharp tang of her power still crackling over her skin. Her eyes glint as you gag softly around the intrusion, and she presses deeper, “suck.”
Your pride flares for a moment, but the lingering bliss of your climax that pulse between your legs betrays you. The taste of her fingers and the weight of her gaze leave your body trembling, your moan muffled around her hand. She chuckles darkly, pulling her slickened fingers free only to trail them down your throat, leaving a faint glisten in their wake.
Then she moves her body, sliding down, hips slotting lower until the heat of her pussy presses into yours. The shock of skin meeting skin makes you cry out, head tipping back into the pillows. Wanda wastes no time. She grinds against you, movements sharp, her clit bumping yours with every roll of her hips sending sparks tearing through your veins.
One hand clamps around your jaw, holding you still. Then she slides her fingers between your lips again, shoving them deep until your mouth stretches around her. She doesn’t relent, pressing her fingers against your tongue before pulling them out, wet and shining, only to push them back in.
Her other hand roams across your chest to play with your nipples, squeezing and twisting until your breath stutters. The roughness of her touch is unbearable, the contrast of pleasure and pain making your back arch against the mattress, bonds crackling tighter when you try to resist.
The magical restraints cinch harder with each thrust, stretching you open, forcing your body to take everything. Wanda’s breath comes ragged now, her hair tumbling loose around her face, strands clinging to damp skin. Her eyes never leave yours, burning with feverish intensity as she drives herself against you. She shifts her angle, grinding harder, faster, each drag more devastating than the last until the friction blurs into a dizzying fire that consumes you whole.
Every nerve is aflame. Every sound that leaves your throat is swallowed by the grin curving her lips, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes as she watches you writhe. Her hand finds your jaw again, thumb smearing over your lips before pushing into your mouth, silencing your cries as her hips drive against yours.
“Good girl,” she growls, voice rough with arousal. “Cry for me properly.”
Her hips grind harder, faster, the sharp drag of her body against yours building a rhythm that tears the breath from your lungs. Each stroke is punishing, her strength bearing down until you can’t move, can’t think, can only feel the wildfire she sets alight inside you.
Her thumb stays shoved in your mouth, silencing you, forcing every moan to vibrate through her hand. Saliva slicks your lips, drips down your chin, and still she pushes, her eyes drinking in your wrecked state with feral hunger. The smirk on her face tells you she’s savouring every second of your undoing.
Wanda lowers her head to your ear, her breath hot and ragged. “Do you feel that?” Her voice fractures into a moan as her hips slam harder against yours. “That’s mine. You’re mine.”
The words push you over. The dam bursts, ecstasy ripping through your body in violent waves, your muffled cry is raw against her hand. You shudder helplessly beneath her, bonds holding you wide while every pulse of pleasure rips through you like fire in your veins.
Wanda’s rhythm falters, grows more frantic. Her free hand clutches your hip with bruising force as she drives herself against you, chasing the same edge she’s dragged you over. Her head tips back, a guttural sound spilling from her lips as her own climax crashes into her. Her body jerks, grinds through the release, leaving you both gasping and tangled in sweet ecstasy.
The magic loosens, threads unravelling until only faint sparks remain, brushing over your skin like fading embers. Wanda finally pulls her fingers from your mouth, trailing them across your cheek before bringing them to her lips and sucking them clean with a moan. Her eyes meet yours, dark and satisfied, her smirk returning as she shifts her hips just enough to keep you aching beneath her.
“You’ll soon learn, honey,” she whispers, still breathless. “Every time you fight me, I’ll break you all over again.”
-----
And just like that we add another MILF to the roster. I'll probably write for Wanda again so lemme know if you folks want a taglist for her fics too :P
Summary: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Coyote's Sister!Reader -> When you're reunited with Jake, he just so happens to look at you in a different light.
Disclaimer: This is a Requested Fic from @daughterofapollo-7 -- Hopefully I have done your story idea justice and I hope you enjoy it. Inspired by the song by Sabrina Carpenter. Brother's best friend, fluff, reader is a lawyer who crochets, kinda friends to lovers, swearing, happy ending.
Finally feeling the fresh breeze of San Diego in your hair was needed much more than you realised.
For the last twelve months, you’d been practically locked in your office dealing with client after client who had some quarrel or other to settle either with their partner, or neighbour or both.
“Figured you’d be out there kicking their asses,” you said as you watched Penny check off her to-do list on orders and payroll.
She smiled wide as she saw you. “Y/n! Oh, my god, kid. Where the hell have you been?”
Being wrapped in a hug by Penny was unlike any other. It was the kind of hug you got from your favourite teacher when you were in third grade and thought getting 8/10 on your spelling test was the end of the world.
“Please tell me you’re staying for a while.”
You nodded with a smile. “Couple weeks. Javy told me he might be shipping out for a while so I wanted to surprise him. Can’t let his ego get any bigger before he leaves.”
Penny chuckled. “He’s not the only one. Mind me stealing you away for a while, before they spot you?”
You shook your head. “Not at all.”
“Beer?”
You smiled, “Penny, you are a goddamn mind reader.”
You and Penny had at least twenty minutes to catch up on everything before the rest of the Dagger Squad came running inside in need of some decent food and drink.
“Holy shit!” You heard your brother at the door. You managed to stand from the bar stool before he had you engulfed in a crushing hug. “What are you doing here?”
“Figured my big brother could use an ego check before he ships out.”
Javy just laughed before hugging you again. “It’s good to see you.”
“Mom says hi by the way.”
“She’s not with you?” Javy asked, a little wounded.
You shook your head with a smile. “No. But, she has a good excuse.”
You unlocked your phone to show Javy the pictures. “She’s on a cruise?!”
You smiled. “She won the competition on the local radio. She’s on a full month cruise.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“And you think she told me?” You asked. “I had to deep dive into Sharon’s facebook page in order to find this.”
“You know, I’ll never understand it. If it was us, we’d never hear the end of it.”
You chuckled, “Oh, don’t worry, I’ve got that covered.”
Javy stood back. “What did you do?”
You shrugged, innocently. “I might have found the Captain’s phone number and had him make an announcement throughout the ship.”
Javy chuckled. “She’s gonna whoop your ass.”
“Hey, if she can make an announcement over my high school Prom, I can make one on her cruise.”
As Javy laughed, Natasha dipped under his arm and pushed him aside. “I thought I heard your voice!”
“Nat!”
Most of the Dagger squad, you’d met at Javy’s first graduation into Top Gun. But you’d met Natasha around the same time as you’d met one of your brother’s other co-workers.
While you and Natasha had become friends over a legal issue that she needed sorting out when her neighbour tried to claim that the fence line of their property was seven inches further to the left than it actually was; you had met Jake Seresin the Christmas Javy had brought him home.
Apparently his family were away for Christmas and he couldn’t get to them. So, rather than spend it alone, your mom had ordered Javy to bring Jake along.
At the time, he didn’t pay you much attention.
Most of the time, you stayed in your pajamas, recovering from your previous grad-school semester which had ultimately kicked your ass. Your eyes were dried out from reading so many legal documents that had been digitised, so you’d dug out your glasses.
Other than the random conversations in the kitchen when you’d crossed paths, and the answers he’d given to your parents endless questions, you didn’t know that much about him.
Obviously, when you graduated and began working at one of the top Law Firms in New York, you’d had a little more time to do some digging on your brother’s co-workers. And having Natasha as a friend meant you also knew most of the embarrassing stories your brother had been a part of.
“Jake, you remember my little sister, Y/n?”
Looking at the stealth pilot who…clearly had barely aged since you last saw him, was looking at you as if he’d never met you before.
You smiled and he tried to smile back, but shock seemed to be the only expression he could truly muster. “Y/n?”
“Nice to see you, again, Lieutenant.”
“You…you look…”
Natasha looked like the cat that got the cream. “Well, would you look at that? Hangman, finally speechless for once. You should surprise us more often, Y/n.”
You chuckled, feeling a little proud that you’d caused the prominent blush on Jake’s face.
“Y/n, I know you’re here for your brother, but I am going to steal you away because I need to know more about New York. What is the new firm like?”
Whilst Natasha dragged you over to the booth where Penny had laid down the different plates of food, Javy stood beside his best friend.
“Dude? You okay?”
Jake swallowed. “What? Oh, yeah. Yeah.”
Javy chuckled, watching Jake’s eyeline fall directly on you. “Jake, you are my best friend. And I trust you with my life. But that’s my sister, dude.”
Jake shuffled awkwardly on his feet. He hadn’t felt like this since he was 12 and tried to ask his crush out to the school dance. What the actual hell had you done to him? Not to make it sound cheap, but when had you gotten so…hot?
Anybody willing to look past the ‘traumatised grad student’ look when he’d first met you, would have seen what he had. You were smart, beautiful and charming in the quiet, library nerd kind of way.
But, standing inside the Hard Deck, you were dressed in a golden coloured sundress, your hair braided back; yet, despite the freedom that seemed to radiate from you, Jake knew not to mess with you.
But Javy decided to remind him.
Jake turned to him, waiting for the extra warning; “But that’s my sister, dude. Back off.”
Instead what he received was; “She might look sweet, but she’ll bury you before you even have a chance to run.”
Jake gulped, and Javy laughed. He loved you dearly but he wouldn’t wish your wrath, if somebody tried to hurt you, on his worst enemy. Unless they completely deserved it, obviously.
By the time you did have a chance to finally catch up with your brother, it wasn’t long until he brought up your dating life.
“What is your obsession with me finding someone?”
Javy shrugged. “I'm ready for kids.”
“Then have your damn own!”
“Whoa, I never said I’m ready for my own. But, it would be nice. And I know mom-”
Oh, so that’s why.
“Oh, my god.”
Javy smiled. “-would love to have some-”
“Did you and her plan this?”
“-grandkids to spoil-”
“I’m gonna kill you both,” you laughed, shoving his shoulder.
“Okay, okay, okay,” he held his hands up. “Okay. Sorry. But, seriously? After your last…are you sure you don’t want to get back into the dating game?”
You sighed and shook your head. “Even if I did, my job is starting to make me wonder why anyone ever gets together anymore.”
“You could always just focus on property law.”
You nodded. “But I get bored with just the same cases all the time.”
Javy couldn’t help but chuckle. “I don’t know how you do more than one at a time. It’s like being back in middle school, watching you with your music and reading at the same time.”
“Hey! That is a totally normal thing to do.”
“Yeah, for a dork!”
You narrowed your gaze at your brother. “There is nothing wrong with being a dork.”
Thankfully, the topic of Jake Seresin or his reaction to seeing you for the first time in years didn’t come up for a few more days; when your brother decided to ditch you for the third girl that had asked him out during your coffee run that morning.
Peering through your eyes which you wished were still closed and against your very comfortable, very cool pillow and bed, you found Jake standing at your front door.
“Jake?”
“Hey. Shoot, did I wake you? Javy said you’re usually back from your run by now.”
You nodded. “Uh, yeah. I decided to skip it this morning. Slept in- what are you doing here?”
Unlocking his phone, Jake held it up to show you. “Best friend duties, apparently. I am to take you on a-” Jake read the text from his phone. “Tour of the town, stopping at the best locations that aren’t tourist packed before stopping off at the pop-up store in town in order to feed your overgrown wool obsession?”
Jake looked at you, a little confused and a little concerned. “Wool obsession?”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s not an obsession, per se.” Moving away from the door, you let him step out of the heat and into the cool AC controlled space. “I just…picked up a couple hobbies after grad-school.”
“You knit?” Jake asked, already on the border of laughing.
“Crochet.”
Then he laughed. But not mockingly. It was more good natured than that. “Oh, my god. Javy was right, you really are a grandma.”
“Alright,” you chuckled. “Don’t push it. There is nothing wrong with having a hobby. I have made a lot of useful procrastination projects.”
“What like?” Jake asked as he followed you through to the kitchen.
“Blankets, mostly. Some hats for the winter. New York winters are no joke.”
Despite your initial meeting with Jake a few days ago, he’d managed to find his voice. And, surprisingly, he was pretty easy to talk to.
Before you knew it, you’d learned more about Jake than you ever thought you would, you’d seen most of the common spots in San Diego that Jake knew about and you’d found your Woolen Heaven.
“I think I might have to send myself a delivery box of this, in order to get it back to New York.”
“Do you think you could teach me?” Jake asked you as you both walked back to his truck.
“To crochet?”
He nodded. “Just between you and me, I’ve, uhh, I’ve kinda always wanted to learn.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle. “The stealth pilot who was the frat boy in college, has always wanted to learn crochet?”
“Alright,” Jake smiled, bashfully. “And- hold on. How did you know I was a frat boy?”
“I did a deep dive on you after the Christmas you visited.”
“What?”
You shrugged. “Relax, I’ve done a deep dive on all of you.”
Jake gasped. “Please tell me you found out Bob was like a secret agent or something in college?”
You chuckled. “Afraid not. Bob studied Mechanical Engineering, was a part of the debate team, could have been the asshole Jock but instead he volunteered at his Grandmother’s retirement village on the weekends.”
“By the way, you should tell the others that you’re a secret nerd.”
Jake chuckled nervously. “W-What?”
You stopped as you reached his truck and turned to look at him. “Harry Potter novels including special editions, Mathlete and also a debate champion.”
“How did you-”
“When I do a deep dive, I go deep,” you told him. “Your mom posted a photo on Facebook after she redecorated. Your childhood bookshelf was in the background.”
“Have you ever thought about being a spy?”
You smiled. “I’m just a really good lawyer.”
By the time Jake had dropped you back home, you already knew the first thing you were going to teach Jake to crochet.
A Gryffindor scarf.
Surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, Jake seemed to pick it up pretty quickly. And your conversations with him just seemed to continue long into the night, past dinner and past Midnight Pizza snacks.
By the time the sun was rising, you found yourself waking up on the sofa. And you weren’t alone.
Behind you, Jake groaned a little. “What time is it?”
“4:30,” you told him. “Stupid body clock.”
Jake sounded like he was gonna puke. “You get up at 4:30 to go for a run?”
“I have a busy job,” you grumbled, standing up quick enough to feel drunk despite having zero alcohol in your system.
Shutting the blinds and curtains of the room, you quickly laid back on the sofa with Jake who accepted you into his side with open arms.
With your head on his chest, you fell asleep pretty quickly.
“Should I be worried that my best friend and my baby sister are sleeping together?”
“Jesus,” both of you groaned. “Why are you yelling?”
You heard your brother laugh. “Already copying each other. Cute.”
“And I’m not your baby sister.” You corrected him.
“You were a baby when you became my sister, so that makes you my baby sister.”
“That makes literally no sense.”
Jake shrugged, his eyes still closed. “It makes a little sense.”
Wishing to still be asleep and keeping your eyes closed, you hit Jake’s chest. “Shut up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Javy hummed. “At least he knows his place.”
“Unlike some people.” You said looking at your brother. “Did I even give you a key?”
Javy ignored your question. “I brought coffee.”
“I have a coffee machine.”
“And pastries.”
By the time all three of you were sitting around the kitchen table, you tried to question Javy about his date. But, he wouldn’t say anything.
Not until he tried to force you and Jake through a long talk about his best friend and sister dating.
“We’re friends.”
“Has mom given you the talk?” Javy asked you before looking at Jake. “Have I given you the talk?”
“I’m gonna kill you.”
But Jake could only laugh.
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” Jake smiled.
The torture continued on for twenty minutes until you gave a long and rather detailed list about how you would make sure everyone including Rooster and Payback would find out about his history with soccer balls and his tenth grade crush that publicly shot him down before a school dance.
Little did you know that, as much as it was a joke from Javy, that by the next summer you and Jake would be sharing a lot more time and as more than just friends.
you don't remember falling asleep, Satoru remembers everything
tw : non-consensual drugging, psychological manipulation, gaslighting, implied . . . abuse, loss of bodily autonomy . gojo satoru x m!reader [mdni.] 🪽
. ✦•┈๑⋅⋯⋅๑┈•✦
Thud.
The sound of your fist hitting the punching bag should be comforting.
Thud.
Again.
Thud...
Again. You can’t remember when you started feeling so much more nauseous.
You’ve been in the training for… how many minutes has it been? Maybe 10, maybe 20. The nausea just gets worse. It hurts when you bleed, and your vision is blurred. There’s red on your knuckles, blood, maybe. But there’s no pain to accompany, just this nauseous feeling that made you feel like you were drowning at all times, one that had accompanied you for the past couple of weeks. This feeling.. It isn’t new. It brings you back to–
No.
Yes.
Your mind betrays you, somehow managing to conjure images of your ex in your mind despite the haze and despite the fact that there was saliva dripping down the sides of your mouth. Ts like the two lobes of your brain are fighting, and whichever side wants to think of him wins.
God, it was just like this, wasn’t it? After his fist would meet your face, his foot to your stomach. You’d crawl on the floor like some sick animal, and it felt just like this. Like you were swimming in a pool of vomit.. You thought you were rid of that feeling. It had came back only when you started dating Satoru, coincidentally.
Oh, Satoru.. Mayb–
“You should take a break. Your knuckles are all bruised.”
As if on command….
A stronger wave of nausea washes over you, and you collapse onto the punching bag, once muscular hands quivering as you turn around. There he was. Satoru. Standing in the doorway. The ink-black of his blindfold not able to conceal that sour, unsettling glow of those eyes that he seemed to get around you. A coy smile at his lips.
“C’mere, darling. Let’s get you to bed.” He says, as he pushes off the doorframe and stalks toward your weak, pathetic figure. Those firm, unbroken hands wrapping around your weak frame, dragging you along to your room. You want to protest.. It’s afternoon, right? There's so much more time… so much more to do.. You open your mouth, but more saliva drips out, and you shut it the best you can. You hear other sorcerers’ voices as you two pass, but it all fades back into nausea.. Your brain.. Is just a sea of nausea; every boat that tries to pass sinks into the thick waters. However, one boat seems to cut through, like a knife through paper “I’ve told you, you shouldn’t push yourself.” Satoru clucks, a small smirk gracing his lips, “You should sleep more.”
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe you should.
Soon, after the long, sinking feeling that was being dragged to the room, Satoru pushes open the door. “We’re here, angel.” He sings and tosses your limp, ragdoll-like body onto the bed. Your head lolls on the pillow. “Disgusting. You really must sleep. Angel.” He adds the nickname like its an afterthought, an extra measure to make sure you don’t get upset at him. You drop your head onto the pillow, and Satoru clucks his tongue again. “Ah-Ah-Ah, Angel. Still need to take your pills, remember?” He lifts your chin, like a god to a desperate believer, or, his desperate angel. And he pours that same, sweet, sticky liquid mixed with crushed up tablets down your throat, most of it dripping down the sides of your mouth, mixing with the saliva.
Satoru sits on the bed, back against the headboard, as you crawl over and flop onto his lap. He wraps his hands around your frail body, and your body reacts while your brain sends failed warning signals. Signals to run. Signals telling you these arms can only mean harm, that its just restraint disguised as comfort, abuse, abuse, just like him, just like your ex–
You manage the power to quiet your brain.
Satoru would never hurt you.
You try to swallow down the rest of the pill-solution, trying not to choke, focusing on not looking pathetic. In this focus, you don’t realise how the rest of the room slowly morphs, stretches, changes into something… recognisable. Your body finally catches up to your brain, and you look up to where Satoru’s head should be, eyes wide, your heart suddenly beating fast like its waking up from that sullen daze. It’s not Satoru, he’s not Satoru. No. It’s him. Your ex. The one you hid from for months on end, the one who gave you all these sicknesses and issues, who reduced you from a grade 1 sorcerer to nothing but a pathetic weakling who needs The Strongest to do everything for him. No, No, NO. His face is all inked out, just those eyes, small and unblinking, staring down at you. You try desperately to pull away, but the ringing in your ears starts up again, mixing with your heart into one, swirling mess of your senses. Your ex’s grip tightens around you, a fully black smile appearing on his scratched face. He says something, but it fades into slop. He scowls. And before you realise, your lithe, weak body is thrown, thrown onto the cool floor.
Something rings through your body.
Not pain, not even the noise in your ears. No…
Angel
Angel
Angel
Angel
That nickname, the one only Satoru has ever called you, is ringing, surrounding, drowning you like a melody to the sick ballad that is your life. Your ex stalks closer, the bedroom fades to inky black, the final scene of the Hero so rightfully taking the life of the plagued. You can’t move, and all the force in your body is already being put to keeping your head up. He’s almost here, arm raising to deliver the final blow to the shell of who you’ve become, when warmth replaces the ringing.
“Still thinking about him, angel?” It's Satoru’s voice. Where is he? You can’t turn your head, can’t look, but you feel warmth around you. Hands on your shoulders. You try to move your eyes to his hand, but another one stops you, forcing your eyes to lull back towards your ex, who’s stopped, hand mid-swing, but is still smiling. Larger than before. “Still looking at him, too. You’re sick, Angel.” Satoru continues, voice stern like it's never been before.
“P-P-Plea-lease..” You choke out, trying to talk even as you feel like you're being drowned in an ocean of nausea, waves of pain washing over every attempt to speak. Satoru tched once more.
“Wake up, Angel.”
And just like that, it all disappears. Like his voice was the command it had all been waiting for. You’re back in the bedroom now. However, it’s much darker now. A dark that could perhaps rival the ink-black of the nightmare. You can only barely see two unblinking, pale blue lights in the midst of it all, as you choke on your own sweat and half gag, half pant. Only after you fall back into those heavy, chain-like arms do you choose to look up at those eyes, and your brain cuts through the thick mucus of emotions to ask itself the question that makes you want to give up all hope altogether:
How was he in my nightmare?
And then, before you can even blink , or at the very least, process how tired and sick you truly are, you feel Satoru smile. Its slow. Uncanny. Like some entity wearing the flesh of the man who protected you. His smile grows. How… how did he know you were thinking about him…?
“Ah.. go back to sleep, angel.”
And just like that, you pass out onto his shoulder. Like you’ve done dozens of times before.
But something stops you, right before you let the sleep Satoru claims is healing overtake you. It's a sense of… thought, perhaps. No, it’s something unamable. Something your brain seems to know but your body doesn’t. What you do know, what’s palpable, is that you feel the odd urge to.. Stay awake. Fake sleep.
So you shut your eyes, but don’t let the sleep abduct you. Strangely enough, Satoru doesn’t shift at all in the night. You move your heavy, weighted-down body enough to make it seem like you’re just shifting, when you’re really trying to glance up at him again in reality. And what you see disturbs you far more than any other thing that has been slowly breaking you thus far.
There, in the pitch black of the night, you can see those two glowing eyes wide open. Staring. At what?
YOU.
Somehow, he doesn’t notice you looking at him, but he does lean down to press a cold, seemingly required, kiss to your head. You wish you could fall asleep, but after seeing that sight, you don’t think you will.. You don’t want to. Unfortunately, the universe never seems to care about what you want, and those pills kick in.
…. You wake up, maybe.. 3 hours later, to the feeling of someone gently brushing their knuckles over your cheek. You still feel nauseous, but it's more of a lake than a sea. Still, your mind is hazy. Its.. Satoru, who’s touching you? “Angel!” he starts, and the nickname never made you want to throw up as much as it does now, “You’re finally up.” His tone is so cheery, his body so warm, that it makes you believe that his being in the nightmare was coincidental. That he may have just… Said your name in his sleep, and your nightmare reacted. “I made you breakfast. C’mon.” He gets up and walks to the kitchen. You try to follow suit, shakily getting up and staggering into the kitchen.
The kitchen feels wrong. Like its four white walls somehow know something you don’t.
You shakily, pathetically, sit at the counter, your shoulders slumped, head barely staying up. You stare at the plate Satoru had placed in front of you blankly, more focused on listening to him humming as he moves around and pours himself a coffee. The noise of the liquid pouring into the porcelain cup makes you want to vomit.
“You should eat,” Satoru says, breaking the silence, pausing to take a sip of his coffee. “Your hands were shaking a lot last night.”
…What the hell? You look up from the blank white of the plate.
“..Last night?” You echo his words, confused. He glances over to you, casually nodding and taking another sip. “Mhm. After the ‘nightmare’ .”
That makes the air leave your lungs, and your brain suddenly starts to dig itself out of that hazy state. Just a little bit. Barely anything, really.
You hadn’t said a word about your nightmare. Not since you woke up. You hadn’t said anything at all.
“I didn’t–” You have to take a pause, your mouth is dry. A sour taste arising in the back of your throat. “..I didn’t tell you what it was about.”
Satoru pauses, just for a second.
Then he smiles.
“You didn’t have to tell me anything.” He set his mug down in the sink and then leaned against the counter in your general direction, arms folded. He slid the blindfold up, his gaze sharp, focused. Trained on you. “You always react the same way in it, anyway.”
Your pulse starts ringing loudly in your ears.
“How?” You ask quietly, your voice soft. He tilts his head, like he genuinely needed to think about your question, but his eyes stay trained on you. “You get really still. Like you’re waiting for it.”
Waiting for it.
Your fingers dig into the fabric of your sleeve.
“And this time,” Satoru continues, voice gentle, “you’ve improved. You didn’t even scream when he threw you.”
Your stomach drops.
..That didn’t happen at all in the real world.
You can feel the pain again, the shape of the nightmare, the way your body remembers the cold of the black floor, the impact of your body against it, the ringing of your ears. “I never told you that,” you whisper, cold dread in your voice.
..There it is. That flicker again in those eyes. Much sharper, something amused. Something pleased, almost happy.
Satoru straightens immediately. “Angel..” He coos softly, walking around the counter to stand behind you. Too close. His shadow seems to be blocking any exit, warm and unescapable. Truly just a restraint now. “You talk in your sleep.” He reaches out his hand, his thumb brushing your chin to lean it to the side so you have to look at him. “You said his name..” he added softly, “over and over.” Your throat tightens even more. “I.. did..?”
“Mhm.” His smile is sweet, perfectly reassuring, like he knew he was winning. “And mine. You said mine, too.” Your vision swims, adding to all the other feelings that were plaguing your body. “This happens sometimes,” he continues smoothly. “Dreams can blur together when you’re this stressed.” He releases you, turning away to walk to the couch. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.. What did I say about not sleeping, angel?”
He knew. He knew you had stayed up.
He grabs his jacket off the couch. “We have a mission.” He reminds you lightly, “You don’t want to be late again, do you?” Again. His voice was… patronising. He walks to the door and holds it wide open. Patiently waiting as he slid his blindfold down once more. Your body moves on its own, you stand, and look down at your legs in awe. How could you still stand? But shake your head to yourself, and follow him into the hallway outside the apartment. The lights flicker overhead. You focus all your attention on the simple movement of walking, one foot in front of the other, but your thoughts travel anyway.
He didn’t just know what happened in your nightmare.
He knew when it happened.
He knew that you didn’t sleep.
He knew everything .
The hallway starts to warp around you.
Your steps echo far too loud, too slow, like your body is lagging behind your thoughts for the first time in months. Satoru is still a couple feet ahead, hands in his pockets, whistling under his breath without a care in the world.
And thats when it hits.
Not all at once – not panic, not yet. – but like a series of small, merciless thoughts.
He knew when you stopped fighting.
He knew when you froze.
He knew the noise you made when you were thrown.
And worse?
He woke you up.
It wasn’t the nightmare naturally ending on its own accord, no, it wasn’t your body jolting awake in fear.
It was—
His voice.
Wake up, Angel.
Your stomach twists violently.
The pills. The timing. The way the room was dark when you woke, but morning had come too fast. The way he was already awake. Already watching.
Your vision blurs.
And surely, like clockwork, the minute you thought of him, Satoru suddenly glances down at you. “Hey.” He says suddenly, “You’re pale.”
You don’t answer.
Your heart is hammering now, blood roaring in your ears like waves crashing against a jagged cliff. Every instinct you’ve ignored for weeks, for months, is screaming at once.
Run.
You choke on your words, but manage to gasp out a “I– I think I’m g-gona be.. sicK.” And before he can respond, your body chooses for you. You bolt. Sprinting like you never have before, not since you’ve become a weakling.
Your footsteps slap against the tile as you sprint – still half stumbling – down the hall, hand flying out to steady yourself against the wall at times. Your stomach lurches more; nausea shoots up your throat, sharp and sudden. Behind you–
“Angel?” Satoru inquiries. His tone is light. Curious. Not alarmed. “Where’re you going off to?”
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
You shove open a bathroom door and barely make it to the sink before your knees completely give out. You collapse to the hard tiled floor, gagging, retching – nothing coming up except for bile and frothy saliva, your body trying oh so desperately to purge something it doesn’t know the name of. Your hands are shaking so badly, but you hear the sound of notifications on your phone. They’re shaking so badly you nearly drop the device as you pull it out of your pocket. Three texts. All from Satoru. Your vision is clear enough that you can see each one:
Satoru: Where are you?
Satoru: Why did you run out like that?
Satoru: I found you. The bathroom, really?
Shit. Your fingers fumble, heart racing, breath coming in short, panicked pulls. You try to stand.
You don’t make it in time. The door swings open.
Satoru is already here.
He shouldn’t be. There was no time, no sound of footsteps.
He looks down at you with something like fond disappointment.
“Angel,” he sighs deeply, kneeling in front of your violently shaky form. “You really shouldn’t strain yourself.”
You try to scramble back. Your limbs refuse. “You put it together, didn’t you?” He murmurs, voice fond. His hand cups your cheek, thumb gently wiping away sweat. “That always happens eventually.” You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “That’s why I don’t let you stay awake long, Angel.”
“You never notice. But I’m always there. In the room, in your head.” He adds.
Your vision goes dark at the edges. Why was he blatantly admitting it? “It’s okay..” He repeats. “I know its hard when you remember things out of order.”
“That’s why you woke up when you did.” He adds. “You were starting to slip away from me.”
The room tilts. His arms slide around your back.
Effortless.
“I’m here to carry it with you, angel.” He whispers.
And the world drops out from under you.
…..
You wake up in bed. In the bed.
Dark. Thats the second thing you notice.
For a half second, it feels like mercy.
Your body is heavy and distant, numb in a way that almost resembles peace. Like sinking beneath warm water, far from noise, far from memory.
A nightmare. It had to had been one.
It’s over.
You finally breathe in, feeling the soft touch of the sheets under your fingertips, the mattress, the familiar shape of your room. Relief flares inside you, fragile, desperate.
And then it shatters, almost instantly.
The pills.
The running.
The tile cold beneath weak bones.
The way your body gave up before your mind did.
Your eyes snap open, forcing themselves to adjust to the darkness. Please, oh please.. Your mind silently begs the universe that what, who you think is here isn’t really.
But oh, has the universe ever been kind to you, angel?
Satoru is at the foot of the bed.
Not moving.
Not blinking.
Not even staring.
Waiting.
His eyes glow, bright and sharp against the dark. An impossible azure that seems to be too bright. His eyes are locked onto you, fully stretched open.
You feel it the moment you see it. The sense of being seen down to the bone, down to every vein and marrow. Claimed.
And oh if it hasnt set in already, you know now. This isnt a dream.
Your breath stutters.
Satoru exhales slowly, steadying himself. He doesn’t blink. “…You woke up.” He stated quietly. The way he says it makes your stomach drop– he’s evaluating.
You attempt to stand up.
Your muscles don’t respond at all.
His gaze flicks down, like he’s internally documenting the attempt, then lifts back up to your face. A corner of his mouth twitches, just a little, then stills – like he caught himself.
Its only then that you realize that his breathing is erratic.
“I. I was hoping you’d stay under longer,” he admitted meekly. “You’re easier that way.”
He moves closer, knees pressed against the bed. His breathing gets more erratic, but the movement was intentional. Not rushed. Not hesitant. The space between you two tightens.
And then you see it. Theres something in his hand.
Its long. Dark in the light. Held with deliberate care – It can’t be a weapon, but it isn’t harmless either. His grip is firm. Controlled. The familiarity makes you believe its more on the weapon side.
“I stayed awake,” He starts. He begins pacing, ever so slightly, eyes widening even more. “The whole night.” he pauses. “Watching you try to wake up.”
Your heart slams against your ribs.
His jaw tightens. The restraint he’s showing is clear now. The way his shoulders are set, like he’s holding something back. Like he’s holding himself back.
“You kept fighting the medicine..” he murmurs. “Even when your body was done.” His eyes flicker – briefly, dangerously. “I almost let you.”
The silence stretches as you gape at him, nodding his head ever so lightly to himself. “I didn’t.” He finishes his sentence. He moves closer, knees bucking against the bed. The mattress dips at the pressure of his weight.
You’re close. Close enough that you can see his face, now. The intensity behind his composure. The way his eyes don’t soften. His focus is unwavering. His chest is still heaving, and oh, you wish you could tell what he was holding. He looks more human now. “You scare yourself when you remember.. That’s when you get sick.” He says absentmindedly.
Your gaze drifts, unfocused. There was something in your body that was overpowering all sense and adrenaline, but you couldn’t put your finger on what.
And then your gaze lands onto the nightstand.
The pillbottle.
Its knocked over, on its side. Empty. Your heart lurches violently, and Satoru follows your stare.
For a split second, something sharp flashes across his face.
Satisfaction.
It's gone almost immediately.
“I gave you more than usual,” his tone is even, “you weren’t settling.” Your breath begins to shallow. “You needed it, you were spiralling.” He adds quickly, his own breath quickening, the object in his grip getting dangerously close to your foot. His free hand reaches out, fingers brushing your hair.
You flinch. His fingers pause.
A beat.
He continues his caress, slower.. Like he’s choosing each movement.
“Don’t do that again.” He whispers. “Don’t wake up.” His thumb presses against your pulse, “Go back to sleep, angel.”
The darkness takes you before you can fight it, your head dropping with a thud.
You weren’t meant to wake up.
wc: 3.7k . this work is a continuation of a previous drabble, meant for @dawnbreakerswife .
png cred: @todo269 on twt (idk I found it on pinterest)
